


By Her Father's Hand

by TriplePirouette



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The passing of Belle's father leads to her return to rule, but the people's opinion of her has changed in her absence. Heartbroken and standing alone, Belle must decide what future she wants for herself while Rumpelstiltskin is tempted to turn her entire court to snails for their treatment of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Returning Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thenewrapunzel as part of my 100 Follower Fandom Fling based on the image here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/harvenyc/470587088/lightbox/ . (Image credit to HarveNYC on flickr) Also prompted by the phrase: “When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.” Loras, Game of Thrones 
> 
> AN2- As I wrote this I found that I was inspired by several things aside for thenewrapunzel (though you are fantastic, dear!) I don't know where this story came from, but in part it pays homage to amuseoffyre's amazing 'Burning” series, Scarlett O'Hara's mourning gown (here:http://www.gwtw4ever.com/corsettmeasurement.htm In this world take out the bustle and make it a fuller skirt, no cameo, and a smaller neck. :) ) and thanks to a suggestion from ddagent, the scene where Scarlett has just a little too much to drink, too.

He sits, his fingers slipping over the hard wood of his wheel, turning it but not spinning. In his state of mind he might very well spin barbs or poison instead of gold. He just lets his fingers creek over the wheel, the circular, regular rhythm helping calm the tempest in his mind. What he must do, in an hour or so when she rises with the sun, will be unpleasant. Not since he lost Bae has he felt so evil and cruel. 

 

He did not do this, his deal did not do this, but he stole her time. He stole the time she had left with him, and for that, he feels as if it is his fault. 

 

So he turns the wheel and waits. 

* * *

Her heels click down the hall later than they usually do, the sun has been up for hours now and she's only just come down the stairs.

 

She's whistling. 

 

She's happy.

 

He dreads shattering that. 

 

“Belle?” He calls, knowing his voice will carry as he stands, slipping away from his wheel and around the table in the hall to meet her at the door. 

 

She saunters in, bright and cheery and smiles at him. He can only muster a hint of a grin back as he takes her hand and guides her to sit in the chair by the table. His voice is as even as he can make it. “Are you well this morning, dearie?”

 

She sits, rearranging her skirt, and stares at him. She's used to his odd behavior, and has no cause to think this is anything out of the ordinary. “Very well, thank you. I slept exceedingly well.” 

 

“Yes, good.” He looks down at his feet, his hands tangling in front of him. He can see her head tip from the corner of his eye, concern beginning to dawn on her face. “Belle, I've...” He takes a deep breath and looks her in the eyes. Even with the Dark One dancing in the back of his skull, she deserves humanity for this. She deserves respect and understanding. “I've learned some very grave news.”

 

Her concern fades to something unreadable, her jaw slightly slack as she holds his gaze. “Go on, then.”

 

“Belle,” He gulps, hard. He has rehearsed what to say a hundred times this morning, how to say it, but he still stumbles a bit as the words come from his lips. “You father passed on last night. Consumption, it is said, but I have yet to know for sure.” Her jaw trembles and her eyes fill with tears and her breath stops. She stares, her body stock still as she tries to process what he's said. Rumpelstiltskin drops to a knee and takes her hands in his. “I am most dreadfully sorry, my dear.” 

 

Her gaze drops to their hands as tears spill from her eyes. “Well and truly? I have lost my father?” Her voice shakes as her breath hitches and she looks back into his eyes. “This is not a quip? A cruel joke?” 

 

He sighs and squeezes her hands. “The loss of a parent is not something to be fodder for trickery.” 

 

Her control slips at that and she sobs, doubling over with the confirmation that it is real. He's not sure what to do, but holds her hands and does not let go as she wails, her breath hitching into her lungs as she nearly hyperventilates. It brings tears to his eyes to watch her, knowing how much she cares for her father. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can recall the loss of his own parents centuries ago: his father to an infection after a farming accident left him run through with a scythe when he was but a boy, his mother when he was just coming of age after she fell ill over a harsh winter. He only vaguely remembers the pain of loss, the feeling of being alone; the losses tempered by time. He can not fathom how Belle feels. 

 

She pulls herself straight after long, harsh minutes, her shoulders still shaking and her body rigid with the effort of stemming her emotions. She pulls one of her hands away to hold it to her mouth as she sniffs, her face a blotched, red mess. He slips a handkerchief from his sleeve, passing it to her to dry her tears. Her soft voice hitches as she tries to bring some sense of decorum to herself. “Thank... thank you for... for telling me.” 

 

He tilts his head as he looks at her. She thinks he would keep it from her? He thought of it for a moment, if only to spare her this pain, but that she thinks him a monster who would not allow her to mourn her father is a sharper pain than he is prepared to feel. He sighs, but does not dispute her belief. Now is not a time about him. “When do you wish to leave?” 

 

She looks up, the handkerchief dangling from her hand, puzzlement creasing her brow. “Leave?”

 

“Yes,” He says, standing. “Leave. At the very least you must be there for his rites.” He clears his throat and pulls away. “And I expect...” He's not exactly sure what to tell her. He's run through this in his mind so many times this morning, thought of so many outcomes. Only one seems right to him. “I expect your people will wish you to rule- their kind princess who sacrificed herself for their safety.” She looks at him, but says nothing. “You are the only successor, are you not?”

 

Her brow crinkles again and she wrings her hands in her lap. “Of... of blood, yes.”

 

The corner of his mouth lifts just a bit. “Then I suspect you'll be getting an offer of a job that's quite a bit better than caretaker.” He steps forward and takes her hands again, pulling her to stand. She lets him move her like a small child who is too tired to do anything but follow directions. He turns her, his hand on the small of her back as he guides the stunned girl from the room. “Go. Pack whatever you wish. When you're ready I shall take you home.”

 

At the foot of the stairs he gives her a little push and she starts slow, soft steps up, her head hung low. After only two steps, though, she turns. “You'll take me home? And- and our deal...?” She can't find the words to finish her thought, so she bites her lip stares, hoping he understands.

 

He nods once, very slowly. “The deal was for a princess to be my caretaker, not the lady of a vast estate. I believe many others will need you more than my dusty corners. And the Ogres are taken care of regardless.” When she continues to stare he waves his hand and dismisses her. “Go now, dearie. Do not waste time.”

 

She still looks confused when she turns, but he is glad to see the back of her.

 

For then she cannot see the tear that makes its way down his face.

* * *

They're quiet in his magical carriage. She still sniffs into his handkerchief every so often, and he watches her shoulders hitch when she has to fight for a breath, but she's otherwise quiet and calm. They aren't moving, there isn't any bounce or road noise for her to hide behind, so he keeps his eyes away from her, giving her as much dignity as he can.

 

He could have snapped his fingers and conjured them there, but she needs this time to process. They sit still as the world moves around them, the air tense and slightly uncomfortable between them. It will only take a few hours, but he knows she is grateful for the time to think.

 

She put her gold dress back on, the only piece in her wardrobe fit for court, however inappropriate for a grieving daughter. “Permit me,” he whispers into the silence, “to dress you appropriately?”

 

Her eyes meet his across the cabin and she nods appreciatively. When she speaks she loses her tightly held control over her emotions, and he hasn't heard a word from her in hours.

 

He looks her up and down for a moment, thinks, and gently flairs his hand in a tiny circle. She's enveloped in bright purple smoke for a moment, and when the air clears her dress has been replaced with understated black satin. High collar, long, soft sleeves, and a wide skirt that falls to the floor covers nearly every inch of skin in a much more reverent fashion for mourning. Even her hair is pulled away from her face in a manner that is much more respectful than the tied back curls that she could manage by herself.

 

Belle runs her hands over the stiff satin. It's simple but royal, and he can see how much she appreciates the gesture in her eyes. He can't bear to watch as she tries to thank him without erupting into sobs again, so he starts talking.

 

“When we get there, I will stay with the carriage. I will be... available, should you need me.” He reaches out, touching her trembling hand. “Call my name, and I shall appear.” He takes a deep breath, trying not to think of his sadness at the next words. This time is not about his sadness, it is about her loss. “When you have decided to stay, I ask that you let me know.”

 

Belle wipes away another tear with the back of her free hand, and nods again before turning her attention to the covered window.

 

They would be there soon, and he would begin to lose her to the life she was meant to have.

 

* * *

When he told her he would be available, he didn't say how. A few simple charms and he's rendered invisible. He perches on turrets and rafters, watching her as she moves through the castle. He sees her break down in the arms of a buxom lady who must have been a well-loved attendant, he sees her greet those around her and their surprise at her return. He sees the way her father's advisers carefully tell her all of what happened and offer their useless condolences. _He did not want anyone to know of his illness, Miss Belle, even yourself. It took him far quicker than anyone was prepared for, though, and he has left no last wishes or words._

 

Though to her face they're all generally polite and formal, he can see that she's confused by something in their manner. It doesn't take him long to see the change in their behavior toward her since the day she left.

 

He sees the way that nearly all of them give her wide berth.

 

He sees them whisper as soon as she turns her back.

 

He sees the fear and hate and disgust in their eyes that they don't show her.

 

He sees the moment when Belle sees it, too.

* * *

Dinner is strained. He watches from a window ledge only a few feet away from Belle. Her day has been filled with condolences about her father and questions of her life with him. She's taken the condolences with as much grace as she is able to muster and has skirted the questions about her life with him with short, quick responses about how well she is and how she enjoys her days, leaving out any details about him they might be searching for. When people find that she won't elaborate, they move on to more trite topics, but those pleasantries have been used up and there is nothing left for anyone to say to Belle that isn't cruel or intrusive, so they hold their tongues.

 

The tightness in her shoulders tells him she knows what is happening, that she is not completely blinded by her grief. She barely nibbles at her dinner, sitting tall and quiet through the pained meal.

 

One of her father's trusted advisers speaks suddenly. “Belle, have you... plans?”

 

Belle puts down her fork and delicately wipes her mouth. “Plans?” She asks, sitting as calmly and regally as she can muster from the head of the table. He nods and clears his throat awkwardly, but doesn't continue.

 

“I suppose that as the surviving heir of the family, it would come upon me to take my father's place.” She watches as the men around her become very, very uncomfortable. Anger floods her system, and Rumpelstiltskin eyes her carefully. “Should it not?”

 

No one is willing to talk but for a lady at the end of the table who seems to have had far too much wine. Rumpelstiltskin remembers seeing Belle greet her coolly earlier, but knows not who she is. A haughty chuckle slips from her before she speaks, her speech slurred slightly. “I don't think that your people are interested in being ruled by the devil's consort.” The man next to her leans over and tries to stem her words, but she throws a hand out and stares Belle down. “So you saved us. Ended the Ogre Wars. But you're unclean. You've been with HIM. Your soul is just as damned as his own and no amount of repentance can change that.” Rumpelstiltskin wants to slit this creature from stem to stern, but only clenches his fists and bites his tongue as she leans forward. “If you rule, they will be afraid of you...and him. If they ever overcome that fear, you can be sure to see a revolt and coup... a bloody one.”

 

Belle shuts her eyes tightly, biting her lip. He can see the way her knuckles turn white under the table as she grips the sides of her chair. She is trying, so very hard, to not let it affect her. His heart breaks, just a little, at the reserve she shows. He knows how her heart is breaking, he knows how very acutely she feels this loss and this pain- he'd seen it this morning. That she cannot share that pain with these people, that the only care she's received is from the one maid whose arms she broke down in, makes him wish to turn these unfeeling wretches into snails.

 

After a moment she opens her eyes. “I would rather hope that isn't true,” Belle says, sitting as tall and proud as he's ever seen her. “I would deem to rule these lands as my father did, and not through fear, but, I shall keep your opinion in mind, Lady Aston.” Belle clears her throat and sets her napkin on the table. “As for my virtue, though it is none of your business...” Belle trails off, her eyes drifting to the floor then back up with a bright fire suddenly blazing behind them, a sudden shift to her demeanor. “No, my virtue is really none of your business. You must excuse me, it has been a trying day.” She stands, her hands resting against the back of the tall chair as she stands behind it. Rumpelstiltskin slips from his perch and quietly stands just off to her side, enthralled by her grace in this situation. “I wish to... to pay my respects to my father tonight. I would very much appreciate to be left alone until morning. Any pressing business can wait until then.”

 

The servants standing at the edge of the room and guests around the table nod. She turns, the sound of her dress the only sound as she retreats. Rumpelstiltskin begins to follow, but turns and stares at the group that starts to whisper unkindly about Belle as soon as she's past the door. He smirks. Turning them into snails would be too conspicuous. Instead, he waves a hand, and sours their dinner just enough so that the taste won't be affected, but their bowels will be. He watches for a moment as they all resume eating, and smiles wickedly as he goes to find Belle.

* * *

He finds her standing alone in the room where her father is laid out. Candles provide the only light in the dark, windowless annex. Tomorrow evening he'll be set to pyre, and she'll complete whatever ritual she needs to. Whether she finds closure from it is a different story.

 

She asked to be left alone, and he isn't sure he should be in here with her. This is, after all, a very, very private moment. But he's worried for her. The loss is enough without others unkind opinions of her compiling the problem. He may not be the cause of her father's death, but he is the cause of their failing opinion. For that, he feels very responsible. He tells himself he watches her only for her safety and leans against the doorway as far from her as he can get.

 

A sob bursts forth from her lips, loud and biting in the silence. Another follows, and more in quick succession until she's fallen to her knees, keening and crying as she was this morning in his castle. She hides her face in her skirts as she cries, going no nearer to his corpse. He longs to comfort her, but his very presence is already a betrayal of her trust. She must not know he is there.

 

She cries until she is a tiny, curled up ball on the floor with no emotion left to give. She pulls her skirts tight to her chest, longing to hold tightly to something. She lays there for half the night; unable to bring her eyes to her father's body but unwilling to leave the room.

 

Rumpelstiltskin sits in the doorway, sending magical suggestions to turn away to anyone who dares think of approaching the grieving girl.

 

Near dawn, she begins to speak quietly. “I'm so sorry, Papa. If they had told me, I would have come. Had anyone sent word, I would have come.”

 

She waits almost as if she is imagining a reply from him. “You didn't see his eyes this morning when he told me, Papa. He would have let me come if you were sick and he heard, I know it.”

 

Again, silence. Perhaps she is waiting for an answer; imagining what he would have said. She turns to her back and talks to the ceiling. “He was a father once, too. I'm sure he understands. And he is not nearly as beastly as everyone seems to think. I have not...” She swallows tightly and seems uncomfortable for a moment. “My virtue is intact. I don't know why everyone seems to believe it isn't... but it is. I want you to know that, Papa. I haven't... I'm...” The words fall away. “He hasn't been inappropriate with me,” she whispers.

 

Rumpelstiltskin turns his back to her and slides to just outside the door. Though he can still hear her, he cannot bear to watch her bare pain.

 

“I always wished to rule. You know that. But if Lady Aston tells the truth, how can I rule if they do not trust me? You always ruled from your heart. You taught me to do the same.” Her words falter at the end and dissolve into soft tears.

 

She's quiet for too long and he slips back into the room. He expects to find her sleeping, not standing at her father's side, brushing her hand over the air just above his body. “You're here, aren't you?” Her words startle him, and for just a second Rumpelstiltskin wonders if she's talking to him. “Papa, if you can hear me, you must know this of your daughter: I'm happy.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin tips his head in wonder, listening intently as he leans on the doorway. “I know you and so many believe him to be a monster- but he truly is not. He was a man, just like any other man. He had a son once, too, and I see that humanity- that love- in him. Yes, he can be cruel...and harsh... and unforgiving... but only when he's given cause. Perhaps his temper is a bit quick- but no worse than some of the royal temper tantrums I've seen. He has...” her voice drifts away and she brushes her hands down her dress. Her voice holds a note of wonder when she speaks again. “He has been kind to me. He has humor, and is sharp witted. Were he not so riddled with the curse of Dark Magic... he would make me a good match.” She chuckles, even as she wipes another tear away. “I can only imagine how you felt after I left, but you need not worry for me. I believe... I believe I am happy.”

 

Her breath shudders from her lungs as she sinks to her knees, laying her head on the side of the table by her father's hand. Rumpelstiltskin can hear the soft hitches of renewed tears, but he cannot move to comfort her. He is still surprised by her words. After a few choice...pranks... to make sure she was duly frightened and in awe of him, he saw to her comfort: a room of her own, a small library that he never ventured into, whatever she needed for the care of the house and whatever she wished for her own entertainment. It seems counterproductive to keep her a slave and he had lived as the poorest of poor for so long that he can not help but share his luxury.

 

But to be happy? With him? He finds that somewhere in his heart he assumes she was...content, but he never imagined happy. It makes him all the more determined to watch over her in the next day.

* * *

She retires to her chambers just after the sun has fully risen and he gives her privacy. She's mumbled something to her father about freshening up and washing, and even as the Dark One grumbles in the back of his skull, he will keep some things only to his imagination.

 

Instead, he sneaks down to the servant's quarters- still nicer than many places set aside for servants he's seen- in hopes of overhearing something that can be useful.

 

Belle's maid, the buxom one that held her as she broke down, is having a heated argument with a skinny butler in the corner. She nearly backs him into the wall with the force of her words. “I don't care what you say, I will not do it.”

 

The butler whispers harshly. “If you stand with her, it will give her courage. You know our Belle-”

 

“Our Belle?” The maid spits out her words. “How can you call her ours if you plan on abandoning her in her hour of need. She'll be setting her father to pyre, and you plan on making her do it alone?”

 

Rumpelstiltskin creeps close, intent on hearing every word. “Lord and Lady Astor were clear. Should we stand with her, she will stay. If we stand against her, she will have no choice but to go.”

 

The maid scoffs. “What do they know of our Belle? I raised that girl before and after her Mama passed, I know that child. If you stand against her, it will hurt her, but only inflame her spirit.”

 

“And then we'll be at war. You know Lord Astor wants nothing more than to take the land from her,” the butler whispers. “And what of Rumpelstiltskin? If he lets her out of the bargain then we're in danger from Ogre attacks. Who knows what will happen if she wishes to be released and he won't allow it. Death, murder, bloodshed...”

 

The maid smiles. “What if he comes with her? To live here?”

 

The butler trembles. “Then the Gods help us all.”

 

The maid rolls her eyes at him, stepping back. “To abandon her would be to hurt her, to spit upon the sacrifice she made for us.” She shakes her head, then steps to him and points her finger in the butler's face. “And you know as well as anyone that should Belle step down from her birthright, her cousin Philip is the successor, not the Astors.”

 

The maid flounces away, picking up a bundle of cloth and taking it to the staircase with her. Rumpelstiltskin watches the young butler, half-enraged and half filled with pity for the small man.

 

The Astors are after Belle's land, and that cannot stand, but as the Lady previously mentioned at dinner, there is also fear of him, and of Belle. What concerns him most, however, is the idea that Belle's people will leave her to stand by her father's funeral pyre by herself, that they'll abandon her.

 

That is something he will not let happen.  


	2. Memories Set Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle stops short and stares. The pyre is not surrounded by people. The people that are supposed to surround it hang back at the castle wall, a mob too far away to truly pay their respects. A tear flits down Belle's cheek, but she turns back to her father's pyre, the small fire and wood box beside it, and continues forward over the grassy expanse. 
> 
> Rumpelstiltskin is enraged at the crowd and in awe of Belle's bravery. He's not sure which emotion he should honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful second part. I really only think there will be three, but I'm not quite sure yet. Also, there is a bit of a tribute to one of my favorite movies in here. Be the firstt o figure it out and I'll owe you a drabble. :)

He has been sitting in the hall across from her room nearly all day. The maid has confirmed, through a few overheard conversations, that Belle has still not slept, and is as broken as a girl can be after losing her father.

 

He's also heard that several members of the castle are not 'well' and have spent the day in chambers. At that he has to stifle a snicker.

 

Just as dusk sets Belle opens her door, standing tall and calm in her black dress as the day he met her. She takes a deep breath and walks out of the room, her shoes clicking quietly on the stone floor as she moves through the castle to the courtyard.

 

He follows like a dutiful servant, treading lightly to avoid making any noise. Not once does her posture waver or her shoulders sag as she steps out into the courtyard, past the garden, and outside the castle walls to the clear open grass at the edge of the lake. Maurice lies wrapped in fine linens high on his pyre, only a few feet from where the grass turns rocky at the lake bed. Belle stops short and stares.

 

The pyre is not surrounded by people.

 

The people that are supposed to surround it hang back at the castle wall, a mob too far away to truly pay their respects. The maid is there, as well, but Rumpelstiltskin can see that both of her hands are being held behind her back by the taller, broader man behind her as she squirms to get free.

 

A tear flits down Belle's cheek, but she turns back to her father's pyre, the small fire and wood box beside it, and continues forward over the grassy expanse.

 

Rumpelstiltskin is enraged at the crowd and in awe of Belle's bravery. He's not sure which emotion he should honor.

 

A wicked smile comes upon him, and with a smoothing of his hands down his simple silk shirt and vest, he's quickly clothed in his most fearsome dragon skin coat. A quiet snap, and he's transported to the back of the crowd. A flick of his wrist, and he's no longer invisible.

 

He growls the words, because he cannot muster the energy to be polite in the face of these scum. “Step aside, or else.”

 

“Or else what?” A young farm hand turns, the brawny man expecting to stop whatever interruption is being planned when he sees Rumpelstiltskin is all of his fearsome glory before him. The man stumbles he moves so quickly. The rest of the crowd turns, and parts in quiet fear.

 

Rumpelstiltskin enjoys the way they cower as he walks among them. They should cower, forcing his Belle to stand alone at her father's pyre. When he finally reaches the front of the quivering crowd, he steps over to the man holding the brave maid. “Let her go,” he says with his teeth bared fiercely, his eyes dark and foreboding. The man pushes her away and she stumbles forward. She looks at the imp before her and nods her thanks even as she averts her eyes. He allows her a small tip of the head before they continue across the open field, together, until they are near enough to Belle that she turns to see who is walking towards her.

 

The rush of breath from her lungs can only be relief when she sees them, though they make quite the odd pair. “You should have called, dearie,” he says softly. “No one should do this alone.”

 

The maid moves to meet her, gently laying her hand on Belle's shoulder. “No, my little one, no one should.”

 

Belle clutches at the woman's hand, relief washing over her, easing the tension in her shoulders. “Thank you, Agatha.” With a shudder she turns her attention to Rumpelstiltskin as he bares his teeth at the crowd, watching as they shrink back. Belle stares at the imp, sees the way the magic runs through his veins and wishes to be released on the staring crowd far from them, but also sees the sadness in his eyes. “Rumpelstiltskin, I-”

 

He turns back to her and dips his head, his voice calmer, more human, than she's entirely used to. “No words are needed. What can I do?” She lowers her eyes, and he can't take her sadness. “Perhaps turn them to slugs? Have you any salt in the castle?” Her lips turn up in a sad smile. “This is not a quip. No jest there, dearie. I'll happily turn them all to slugs. Or worms, though snails do give a much more satisfying crunch under your boot.” For a moment his cruelty seems to show through his voice, but the way her eyes sparkle when he suggests crunching them, he knows that perhaps that darkness could be embraced by her in this terrible moment.

 

Agatha, however, is scandalized. “They know not how they hurt you, my dear,” she whispers quickly. “Many of them do this more out of fear than out of hate.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin turns his sneer on her. “They still do it, even though you stand here.”

 

Belle reaches out her hands between the two of them. “No snails,” she says quietly. He's come to know that voice in the past day: it's the quiet, withdrawn one she uses when she's desperately trying not to cry. “No hate. No pity.” She looks between then, the tears spilling, but her voice still somehow steady. “My father has died, and his memory must be honored.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin bows, much more reverential than she's used to. “Of course.”

 

“Yes, M'lady,” Agatha whispers, dipping her head.

 

Belle bites her lip and looks at the man who bargained for her. “I... I cannot light it. I know what must happen and how it makes me seem but... but the though of me being the one to...”

 

“Understood,” he says quietly, stepping past her and over to the small fire. He reaches for the torch, dips it into the fire, and waits until it ignites. He turns and looks at the pyre then at Belle as she stands only a few feet away. “Are there words that must be said?”

 

Belle shakes her head and turns to lean on Agatha's shoulder, gripping the woman's arm tightly. With as much dignity as he can muster, for he will not make a show or mockery of this man's death, Rumpelstiltskin walks slowly toward the pile of wood, walking around carefully and igniting the kindling beneath the structure. When he is sure that the fire is in no danger of waning, he slips the torch into the inferno and steps back, his hands clasped tightly together.

 

Belle and her maid are lit up by the red flames of the pyre, the orange of the flame dancing across her face where it is nestled on Agatha' shoulder tightly. He can tell she doesn't want to look, but she can't turn away. Suddenly, she starts to reach out her arm and for a moment, he's wracked with the fear that she'll throw herself on the fire. He's heard of grieving widows and parents wishing to die so badly that they take their own lives, but he didn't think she was so inclined. Her hand turns, though, and she reaches out toward him. He cannot let the call go unanswered, and takes long strides back to her side.

 

Belle takes his hand in hers, holding tight with a steel grip.

 

They stand quietly for long moments, watching the flames as they lick through the wood and linen wrapped body. Agatha speaks just as the silence starts to be too much. “Have you the candles, my dear?”

 

Belle nods. “They're by the fire.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin looks over at Belle as she stands straight and untangles herself from Agatha. She very resolutely does not let go of his hand, even when he loosens his grip slightly to let her move away. She looks at him, tear-filled eyes pleading him to not let go. He squeezes gently, as stoic as he can manage in the face of her anguish.

 

Belle doesn't welcome his anger, and any softness towards her in this moment could be seen as weakness to those who would wish to harm her as they watch from the castle walls. Though he aches to comfort her with more than nods and held hands, his devotion to Belle in this moment necessitates that those watching them still fear him, if only for her own continued safety.

 

Belle leads him toward the smaller fire. Agatha has already picked up the small wooden box and is walking to the edge of the water. Belle stops them just at the waterline, one eye still on the pyre as the water ebbs just at the hem of her skirt. She stands as close as she can to him, but is careful to stand tall. The illusion is important to her, as well.

 

“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it,” Agatha says resolutely, setting out dozens of small candles in tiny wooden boats in a line across the shore. “But by candle light will the departed find their way to love, peace, and happiness.” She lights a thin, tapered candle and hands it to Belle. “By memories of love and life, will they find their eternal rest.” Agatha steps back and bows her head.

 

Belle looks over at him, her eyes mostly dry but the tracks of her tears still an angry red on her skin. “Do you know this ritual?”

 

“No,” he says plainly.

 

“For each candle, a memory. Set the memory afloat on the lake, and it will help...” She chokes up, but he lays his hand on her arm.

 

“It will help.” His words resonate within her and she nods.

 

She steps forward, and though he moves to let her go and stay behind, she keeps her iron grip for a second time and pulls him with her. He cannot object, so he follows dutifully. She hands him the thin candle and leans down to pick up the first boat. Her mouth moves slowly, the words slipping out as she squeezes her eyes shut, tears slipping from between her lashes. “I remember Mama's pyre. Everyone was here, waiting, as papa and I walked out. It seemed like everyone in the whole world was here, and they stood in a circle around her, to show her how she was loved.” Her voice cracks, but he squeezes her hand just for a moment and she continues. “He told me to light the first candle, because he wanted her first memory to be from me.”

 

Belle holds out the boat to him, and waits until he dips the flame to the untouched wick. When it sparks to life, she leans down and presses it carefully into the water with a tiny shove. She waits for a moment, crouched on the shore, her hand still tightly in his, to see that it floats properly before she picks up the next boat.

* * *

They're at the last boat now, nearly two dozen floating on the small lake, their flames flickering highlights against the burning of the pyre. She's cried, hard, as she told every small, beautiful memory of her father: private moments, public moments, moments that are beautiful and moments that are awful.

 

She holds the last boat to him. He goes to light it, wondering if perhaps this memory is not to be spoken aloud, when she pulls it away from the dripping candle. “No,” she says, sniffling quietly. “This memory is from you.” His brow creases and he looks at her, his mouth open just a bit, but not enough for words to come out. “My last memory of him is your memory of him as well. Please,” Her bright blues eyes look into his, red rimmed and blood shot, her voice so tired and defeated. “Please give him your memory.”

 

He finds he can deny her nothing in this moment, and so he clears his throat. His voice is soft, the memory for his Belle and a dead man alone. He does not care for the idea of anyone else sharing in this. “I came to- to help, I suppose. My first impression of you was not spectacular. You offered a man who spins gold the very thing which he makes as payment. But I could see plainly that you cared for your daughter. Your reluctance to let her be a part of the deal was telling, but not nearly as telling as the woman herself.” He cannot meet her eyes, so instead he concentrates on the small boat. “She is brave, and bold, smart and so very confident. Women of court do not grow to these virtues on their own, or by the guidance of their maids and society alone, but by the guidance of their parents. To have created such a beauty, inside and out, and to have all of her love, I must have severely underestimated you.” He dips the lit candle to light the smaller one, and then together they crouch down and set the small boat afloat.

 

Belle's gaze sweeps over the lake full of candles. “That was... lovely.”

 

He clears his throat again, unsure of his words. “I don't mean to be... unkind to the memory of the dead.”

 

“But you were truthful,” she whispers, tears slipping down her cheeks, “and that honors the dead more than false heralds.”

 

Belle lets go of his hand and stands, moving to turn towards the waning pyre but stumbles. He nearly jumps up his hands are around her so quickly, pulling her back tightly into his chest as his candle falls to the ground and extinguishes in a puddle. “Have you slept?” he asks, though he knows the answer already.

 

“No,” she whispers, her hands finding his and wrapping herself into his arms. The last of the unkind mourners have already turned, trudging to the wall of the castle as the last boat was set adrift.

 

“Have you eaten?” He asks, knowing that the answer is not since dinner last night.

 

“I haven't the stomach to hold anything down,” frustration coloring her voice as she leans back into him, her head carefully coming to rest on his shoulder amidst the spikes of his collar. “It's almost gone.”

 

He looks up, regarding the pyre with a critical eye. It will be out soon, it's occupant ashes and only the hulks of the largest logs left whole. After the next good rain it will just be a burnt circle of earth, and after a few months fresh, green grass will grow. She shakes in his arms, tiny tremors that he knows she can't control.

 

He hopes he can giver her some semblance of comfort, “One is never really gone if they live on in your heart.”

 

Her breathing stops, just for a second, before she starts sobbing again and fighting his hands, this time truly trying to break from his embrace to reach for the dying fire, but he holds her to him, and soon she's cradled carefully to his chest, crying into the thick dragon scales. Without prying eyes, he feels free to hold her to him, one hand rubbing over her back, the other tangling in her hair at the base of her skull.

 

The anger in him makes the Darkness at the back of his mind dance with joy. Someone will pay for the pain she is in, someone will learn not to cause his Belle such anguish. And he will very much enjoy teaching that person their lessons.

 

* * *

Even Agatha has left when the sun is high in the sky and the embers have faded. Belle's stood, in the circle of his embrace, for hours watching the last wisps of smoke drift from the pile of ash. She's starting to waver now, her whole body slumping forward in exhaustion, only to pull back up as she opens her eyes wide.

 

He will have no more of it. “Come,” he whispers in her ear, shaking her a bit, “you can barely stand.”

 

She pushes at him, but she barely has the strength of a kitten any longer. “No, no I need to-”

 

He knows it is not playing fair, but he can't remember the last time he was all that honorable, anyway. “Your father would not want you wasting away out here.” He can feel the fight drain from her, but she still does not move to leave their spot at the shore. He sighs. “If we must, dearie,” he says as he bends, lifting her into his arms. As she flops bonelessly against him he can only give a brief thought to how uncomfortable the spikes of the sharp leather must be against her skin. Instead of shying away, she's actually nearly burrowing into him as he carries her away from the thick smell of burning wood.

 

He knows they must be a sight as they enter the castle's courtyard, and the people part for the beast carrying the nearly unconscious beauty. He knows they are thinking unkind things, but not one of them deems to say the words and for that, he is grateful.

 

After watching her pain all night, after seeing the way that not one person aside from the maid would stand at her side, he feels like turning people into tiny insects he can crush beneath his boots as they walk. He wants to tread on them as he carries her, holding her triumphantly high as he defeats her enemies with only a bit of magic and the heel of his boot. But his mind is still more set on the woman in his arms, and her wishes to leave everyone unharmed must be honored, at least for now. He climbs the stone steps until he comes to the door of her chamber. Magic opens the door and lights the lamps for him. Inside it is clean and warm, just as he would expect it to be, and it is easy to slip over to the lush bed. He moves to put her down, but her hands grasp at him fervently, not wanting to be dropped or let go, even as her eyes are still closed.

 

“Hush, dearie,” he lays her down on the bed carefully, gently prying her hands from his collar. Her eyes flit open as she continues to reach for him, fighting his efforts to settle her. “No, you must rest.”

 

He reaches out his hand and pulls a steaming mug from thin air. “Drink this.” He holds it out to her. She shifts to and elbow and grasps the mug. Belle sips cautiously at first, then greedily as the hearty broth slips over her tongue. “It should stem most of the hunger for now, and allow you to rest.”

 

She sits up, her eyes wide but glazed over and the broth sloshing over the edges of the mug. “No, no I-” Panic sets in and she reaches out, taking his lapel in her hand. “I don't want to be alone,” she whimpers out, and though he doubts if she sees more than a fuzzy image of him through the daze, he nods.

 

“Drink, dearie.” He pries her hand from his coat, then smooths it down, the leather shifting before her eyes to his silken shirt and waistcoat that he prefers when he is in the Dark Castle. “I will stay. I'm sure I can amuse myself somehow.”

 

With thoughts of who he'll turn to a snail first. And fantasies of turning that burly man holding the maid against her will to a millipede and pulling off his legs one at a time...

 

He can tell she wants to ask more of him, that she needs the comfort of another human being, but he will not offer it. They already believe her to be his consort, and after last night's display he doubts many would question it, but should a servant stumble in here to find her in his arms she would have no chance at redemption. He must leave her with at least a chance of salvation from the scorn his presence in her life has caused. Instead, he gives her what comfort he can: with a plume of purple smoke her heavy, sweat and tear soaked dress is gone, in its place a soft blue nightgown lays over her limbs. Even her hair is let loose.

 

With gestures that he remembers so well from the years of being a parent, he slips his hands under her knees and pulls out the bedspread from beneath her, laying it over her and tucking her in tightly, her empty mug safely on the bedside table. “Sleep, Belle,” he whispers gently, watching as she rearranges herself against the pillow. “I'll not be far.”

 

With a flick of his wrist a heavy drapery falls over the windows, bathing the room in darkness. He can see well enough in the near blackness to pick his way to her small settee, sitting and letting the tension try to drain from his body.

 

“Rumpelstiltskin?” She calls out cautiously in the darkness.

 

He can't help but chuckle, she's already calling to see if he's left her. “Yes, dearie?”

 

Her voice is thick with exhaustion. “You're not allowed to turn anyone into snails while I'm asleep.”

 

Though he could easily still turn them to millipedes and be heading her words, he decides that he does not want to upset her further. “As you wish, dearie. No turning people into insects.” In a few moments, the gentle sleeping spell in the broth will take effect, she'll be able to rest, and he'll have free reign even if he must restrain himself.

 

He can, however, make sure that a few colonies of lice find new homes. She didn't say anything about adding insects to people.

 

* * *

Agatha jumps when she hears her name called from the other end of the empty laundry room. Rumpelstiltskin leans casually against the wall, the steam of the room making him somehow seem more magical. He raises his eyebrows as she fidgets, caught halfway between a curtsey and backing away in fear.

 

It amuses him. “You have nothing to fear from me, you showed Belle kindness when others would not. It is they who should fear me.” He stays still, knowing that even if she can not like him, she must not be terrified of him for the next few minutes. In the daylight it seems some of her bravery has waned.

 

Agatha stutters as she talks, not quite meeting his eyes. “I brought the girl up from a babe. Her heart is pure, she saved us all bravely, she does not deserve the cruel thoughts or treatment.” She dips her head completely. “That you would allow her here, and not leave her to face her father's pyre alone, speaks well of you, too, sir.”

 

He smiles at that. Perhaps there is some hope for this court yet. “Your bravery was appreciated, as well. But now I have more pressing matters. Your Lady sleeps currently, but I know she is conflicted over her duty to the castle. Tell me, would the people follow her?” He steps forward just a bit, hands gesturing wildly with theatricality that's been reigned in too long.

 

Agatha keeps her eyes down. “No, M'lord. I fear that Lord and Lady Astor are far too keen on acquiring this land and have turned opinions against her.”

 

He stills, trying to catch the Maid's eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up in disgust. “Because of me?”

 

She looks away, but answers quietly. “Yes.”

 

“Your honesty is refreshing.” He walks in a circle around her, batting at the hung bedsheets around them. “Tell me, is there another who could be trusted? Someone to rule in Belle's stead?”

 

She looks up, a grateful look in her eyes before she quickly looks back down. “There is. Her cousin, Prince Philip, just wed. Though he will be king of his own realm soon enough, our fiefdom would be a good start for the newlyweds.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin tents his fingers and stares at her. “Very well. You continued kindness to Belle will not go unrewarded.”

 

He turns and trudges away, but her voice- filled with what little bravery she has left- stops him. “My kindness is because I care for her, not because I seek favor with you.”

 

He turns slowly, a sly smile on his face. “And that is precisely the reason, dearie, that it should be appreciated and rewarded all the more.”

 

* * *

He wanders the halls, sneering at anyone who comes near and enjoying the confused looks as they scratch their scalps. He's not sure what his next step should be, but he knows that Belle may have fewer choices than she thinks. He's heard enough murmuring, seen enough sneers, to know that she has almost no chance of a peaceful rule.

 

Which is why, he knows, she'll try even harder to make it work.

 

Daylight starts to wane when he's had enough of the comments they think he can't hear and the snide remarks heard from around corners and through walls. Whatever has happened since Belle left, these are no longer her people. They do not care for her, nor for him. Though they fear them, and that may be enough to ensure her rule, he knows Belle would never want to rule by force and fear.

 

Rumpelstiltskin slips back to Belle's bedchamber, intent on checking on her before leaving to find out more about Prince Philip. He's startled, however, to find her whimpering and crying in her sleep.

 

He slips beside her bed, kneeling and pressing a hand to her forehead. He's at once assaulted with pain and turmoil. He can't see her dreams, but the emotions roiling through her in her magic induced sleep are enough to turn even his stomach.

 

He winces as he removes the charms and sends calm, soft thoughts into her mind with a few swift magical suggestions. Because of the potion she was unable to even wake herself and try to find respite from her nightmares. She will not sleep well without them, but he will not submit her to the torture of being unable to escape her pain, either.

 

He finds Agatha and charges her with the continued care of Belle while he's away.

 

He needs to find out more about this Philip, and clear his head away from the sadness in Belle that he wants to do anything to end.

* * *

He returns to her chambers only after full dark has set. He hopes, rather than expects, to find her still in bed, but it's empty and already made. Instead, he finds her seated by the fire, a flagon adorned with a dragon in her hand, a decanter of wine mostly empty by her feet.

 

She turns at the sound of his boots on the floor, her eyes red rimmed and no where near as clear as he's used to even these past few days. She stands and walks to him, her black dress swishing wildly around her legs as she stumbles a bit, and he can immediately tell why.

 

She's been drinking for a while now. By the heavy scent of wine on her breath, she's far past drunk.

 

“You went to see Philip?” she asks, her voice flat and dark, her accent heavier but no slur to her words.

 

Inwardly he curses, the maid was to say nothing, but there isn't much he can do for it now. “Yes. To gather information. He did not know I was there.”

 

She wavers on her feet for a moment. “Which is it?” Her voice bites at his ears like a sting, sharp and direct. “Do you not want me to rule or don't you think I can do it?”

 

She stops, mere inches from his face. He sighs, drink is at least something he knows- the demons that wine can expose are harsh but true. He lets his face lean towards hers just a bit. “I think you could, but not in the way you'd want to. You'd have to rule them by force, and I know that's not what you would want for people who live under you to experience. I know it would tear you apart.”

 

She tosses the mug in her hand away, the sound of it shattering like the clap of thunder in the room. “Why do you need to do that?” She nearly screams at him.

 

He can't help the sneer that takes over his face, the evil sound of his voice, the Dark One has been held at bay too long, his influence sneaks through. “Do what, dearie?”

 

“Know me?” She cries, fisting her hands in his shirt. “Why do you get to know me? Why do you understand me so? You're supposed to be cruel, evil. If you were- if you were this would be easier!”

 

He grabs her wrists tightly, keeping her from tearing the fine silk. “What would be easier, dearie?” He thinks millions of things in the fraction of a second that it takes her to answer.

 

Not one is what she says. “Trying to stop loving you!” Her yell fades into tearless sobs, her breath catching in her throat. “How can I leave you when you...” Her head falls, her shoulders slumping and she's holding herself up with her palms against his chest. “I don't even know what he would want. I always thought when I was young that I would rule with Gaston at my side when Papa passed many, many years from now. But Papa was so very traditional at times. I don't even know if he would want me to rule without a husband.”

 

He's still when Belle looks up at him, her glassy eyes full of unshed tears. “But I know what I want. What I wanted then. I wanted so much for these people. I had such ideas.” Her voice softens, her mind drifting away as she steps forward, leaning into his chest. “What if Papa hated me, too?”

 

He holds her tightly, cradling her head under his chin and wrapping tightly around her. “He could not have hated you if he tried. I know, my dear. A father, when he truly cares, will never hate his child. Never.” He buries his nose in the curls at her temple. “He could not hate you, Belle.”

 

She wraps her arms around his waist, relaxing into his arms. “I'm sorry I yelled.”

 

A chuckle twitters high in the back of his throat. “You are more than entitled to a little yelling, dearie. Perhaps I could get you a few more things to break? A chalice or vessel perhaps? I knight in armor to use for target practice?” He can't hear her laugh, but he feels it rumble through her chest and into his. “Express your grief, my dear, in any manner which you see fit.”

 

Belle takes a deep, slow breath, burrowing deeper into his arms. “Is it wrong that I don't wish to leave you?”

 

He smiles into her hair, slipping his fingers through the strands. “No, for I do not wish you to leave me, either.” He jumps when he feels her lips on the skin of his neck. At first he thinks he must be imagining it, but her second kiss, slightly higher up, is much more defined than the first. Her lips slide over the edge of his jaw and he shivers, but he reaches out quickly, his fingers pressing to her lips and pressing her head back gently. He waits until he can look into her eyes before he speaks. “Your mind is heavy with grief and drink, I will not have you like that.”

 

Her head pulls back, a sneer on her face. “Do I disgust you as well?”

 

He pulls her tight again, whispering into her ear fiercely. “No, no my dear.” The darkness in him is struggling to get free, held too tightly by his desire to do right by the woman in his arms. Images of them tangled in the sheets of her bed flash across his minds eye, but he will have none of it. Even with her shouted declaration of love he is wary: spirits and grief can play tricks on the mind. “You have enough to worry about without the love of an old monster weighing on you as well.”

 

“Love?” Her voice is tiny, hopeful.

 

“Yes, dearie, love.” He pulls back, looking into her eyes and brushing back stray strands of hair that have fallen out of her plait. “But that is not for now. We can discuss that when your mind is clearer.”

 

She searches his eyes for any hint of lies or falsehoods, but finds none. “I feel in my heart I should stay, but there are so many reasons why I can't.”

 

His hands slip down over her waist, as much to hold her close as to hold her body steady as she sways with drunkeness. “Where do you wish to be at this very moment?”

 

Belle closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. A small smile starts to lift one corner of her mouth. Her eyes open, and she looks at him with such love and reverence that his breath catches. “In the Dark Castle, sitting in front of the fire, reading, listening to the sound of your wheel as you spin.”

 

“We could go right now,” his voice rasps quietly, “with just a snap of my fingers.”

 

Belle looks tempted, for just a moment, to let him take her away back to his castle, but she presses her lips to a straight line. “No, no I must stay and sort everything out.”

 

A smile overtakes Rumpelstiltskin's face. “Yes, there's my brave girl.”

 

She bites her lip and a small hint of a smile, as much as he's sure she can muster, slips across her face. “Will you stay? I cannot stand alone in this.”

 

He chuckles low in his throat. “I have no doubt that you could, and would, should you have needed to.”

He steps back from her embrace, taking her hand and leading her to her bed. “But I will not make you. I am you servant here, m'lady.” He bows mightily, his hand fluttering out. “Your every whim is my command.”

 

Belle looks between him and the bed for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “Are you putting me to bed again?”

 

A saucy look slips over his face as he presses her back against the sheets, his touch transforming her dress to her nightgown with very little fanfare. “Yes, dearie. You have a long day tomorrow and based on what's left in that decanter over there and how very poorly you keep your balance, you have only a few minutes before you start babbling incoherently, anyway.” He slips the blanket down the bed and waits until she climbs in before he tucks her in tightly. His hand tucks behind his back, and when he brings it forward again, he's holding the book that she left near the hearth in the Dark Castle, her bookmark of a piece of straw still in place. “Besides,” he adds as the fireplace roars to life with a snap of his fingers, his spinning wheel appearing beside it, “who am I to deny you what you wish?”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers as she slips back against the pillows, her book wrapped tightly in her arms. He snuffs all of the lanterns except for the one by her bead so she can read, and retreats to his wheel. He quickly loses himself in the rhythm, and when he next looks over only a few minutes later, she's already fast asleep.


	3. Emotional Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle must make a decision regarding her rule, and Rumpelstiltskin does all he can to help her through the trying emotional time, even as he feels that she will inevitably leave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still utterly surprised by this fic. It turned into an epic of 20,823 words, all from one sentence and one picture. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have.

The next morning he escorts her to breakfast in the dining hall, his hand on the small of her back. They turn heads as they stroll confidently through the halls; she in a black dress that is much more fashionable and far less suited for formal mourning, he in his brown and gold high collared jacket. She sits at the head of the table, with him seated at her right hand, and no one dares to speak through the meal.

 

Rumpelstiltskin, however, has quite the fun time slipping food away from forks and down starched white shirts and generally making a nuisance of himself. Belle, for her part, enjoys his antics, but manages to make it through breakfast without losing her composure. At the end of the meal, as the servants are taking away the trays, she calls for everyone's attention.

 

Rumpelstiltskin slips from his place and walks purposefully to stand at her shoulder, folding his hands theatrically on the edge of her chair. He smiles evilly at the surrounding crowd as they squirm in their seats. “I hope you're all very proud of yourselves,” Belle says strongly, her voice booming through the room. “Your behavior has been shameful to your stature in society and to my father's memory. I would be well within my rights,” she smiles slyly and glances up to the imp standing beside her, “to have Rumpelstiltskin turn you all into toads and then serve frogs legs for dinner.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin laughs wickedly, loving the way they all quiver with fear.

 

“However,” Belle says, biting her tongue to keep from smiling, “I have decided to show mercy. I will pass on my land right to my cousin Philip, the next rightful heir to our family's land. I wish to have nothing to do with the lot of you.”

 

Belle's eye catches those of a scowling duo down at the end of the table. “Lord and Lady Astor, for your part in inciting all this you are banished from our lands. Go where you will, but do not ever return, or I will let him turn you to snails and crush you beneath his boot.” Belle hears the joy in his twitter, hears the sound of his hands clapping together softly, but keeps her burning glare on the Astors.

 

Normally his fervor for violence would twist her heart, but she has the same desire herself with regard to these people. “As for the rest of you, my cousin will know how to contact me should he need...help... with anything.” She lets the words drip off her lips. Last night she dreamed of turning them all to ants with her own hands, taking shards of glass to the sunlight to set them all on fire. She awoke, panting and sweating, to Rumpelstiltskin's concerned face hovering over her. She knows the violence in her heart is temporary, but that doesn't change how fulfilling it is to threaten them.

 

Belle holds her hand out for Rumpelstiltskin to take as he pulls out her chair. She turns back to the court staring at her every move. “I have arranged to speak to Philip's family regarding terms this afternoon. Should I return to anything less than the perfection of my father's court, I'll let Rumpelstiltskin decide your fate.”

 

The corner of his mouth slides up with a sly, seductive air. He looks out at the men and women, seated numbly before them. “How kind of you, Belle. I do hope you all step out of place, it's been a long time since I'd had some...fun.” With a small bow he offers Belle his arm, which she gladly takes, and they stride from the hall. Her determined steps do not stop until he's helping her into his magical carriage.

 

Once the door closes behind him, her shoulders sag against the plush cushions. Belle shuts her eyes and leans her head back, twisting her hands in her lap.

 

“You did well, my dear,” he intones softly, his hand grabbing hers and forcing them to stop their fidgeting.

 

“Many of those people don't deserve that treatment.” She wraps her hands around his, holding tightly and pulling strength from him, though her voice still screams of her fatigue. “Only a few led the way and-”

 

“Their intent is meaningless.” His words bite out harshly. “They stood against you.”

 

After a few moments of heavy silence she nods, agreeing gently. “I suppose.” She shifts and lays her head against his shoulder, his high collared leather coat much more comfortable than the spikes of dragon hide he wore the day before. “I am so lost, so overwhelmed. Sleep does nothing to calm me. I dream of awful, terrible things.”

 

“A potion could help,” he whispers, slipping one of his hands from her grip and running it gently over her temple, “but only with the sleep. It would not ease the turmoil of you mind or the dreams.”

 

Belle breathes softly against him, pushing as close as she is able. He tears free his arm and slips it about her shoulders, pulling her even closer. “Then I do not wish it.” Belle yawns, her hands going to her mouth before tucking under her chin.

 

“Rest now,” his voice rumbles out, deep and soft. “You are still exhausted and we've a long day ahead of us.”

 

“Wake me when we arrive?” Her voice drifts away, sleep already claiming her though she's only been awake a few short hours.

 

He snorts lightly, a smile crossing his lips at her words. “This is a magic carriage, my dear. We will arrive when you wake.”

 

* * *

She slept for nearly two hours on the way to Philip's home, and for another three on the way back, but it did little to alleviate the weariness the Belle held in her body. Her shoulders still sag as he escorts her through the castle to her chambers.

 

Without Rumpelstiltskin's help (Belle thought him in the carriage, but he preferred to sit invisibly by her side) Belle negotiated a fair and simple deal for her father's land and home. The newlyweds would move in by the end of the fortnight, at which time she would leave. In exchange for the lands, Philip only had to keep her updated on the well being of the lands and the people on them and agree to rule as her father had, justly and with both his heart and head.

 

Belle shared a meal at their table, and he was happy to see that these people were not nearly as afraid of her or for her as the ones in her own home. They asked after her safety, and if he was kind to her, and at her smiling, positive answers, they changed topics to see that she was caught up on all the royal gossip, shying away from the negative emotions and events surrounding her father's death. She got along well with the young princess, and the Queen made sure to pull her aside and ask if she was truly alright or in need of any knowledge that only a mother could posses.

 

He smiled when she blushed a dark shade of red. Looking at her now, taking short, slow steps through the halls of a home that is no longer hers as she tries so desperately to hold herself together, he has trouble seeing the calm, happy woman she was this afternoon.

 

Those are the kind of people Belle deserves to be with, and he thinks he should offer her time with them: to let her visit or write. It had never occurred to him before that she might miss court. He had never much had use for other people, but watching her so calm and at ease with her extended family, which she claimed to barely know- reminded him that not every person yearns for solitude like he does.

 

He slipped into the carriage before she noticed as she said her goodbyes, and she had waited until the door was closed to rest against his side again. He asked after her visit, but she had already fallen asleep.

 

The little rest she gained on the trip was immediately erased as she stepped out of the carriage, tension settling upon her shoulders at the stares of the people around them. Her small naps have done nothing to ease the tight set of her jaw and her gaze is far away as she ponders a thought unknown to him. Though the trip to her chambers isn't a long one, it brings the dark circles back to her eyes and the tiny tremors of stress back into her hands. The softness and calm she'd found this afternoon is gone by the time they reach her door and she pulls away from him, slipping into her room with her head bowed.

 

He stands outside of her door, unsure if he should follow her into her chambers. She turns, only a few feet into the room, puzzlement creasing her brow. “Have you something to do?” Her question is light, but there is a weight to her words that sounds like disappointment.

 

“I should bid you good night here.” He links his hands behind his back if only to keep them from twitching.

 

She turns properly, her hands on her hips. She's trying quite hard to look imposing, but they both know she's failing miserably. “If you don't get in this room I will be forced to tell you to turn yourself into a snail. Which is... admittedly, not a very good plan, but I lack the wherewithal to come up with anything better and so it stands.”

 

She looks utterly baffled by her own train of thought, and his concern for her only grows. He steps in quietly, closing the door behind him.

 

Belle stares at him from across the room, looking him up and down from a few feet away in a manner that he can't recall ever crossing her face before. She walks over to him with more purpose than he's seen in her stride all day, getting as close as she can without touching. “They called me your whore, the devil's consort.” There is no anger, only wonder in her words. “They said my virtue was tarnished.”

 

It takes him a second to realize she's not talking about today and Prince Philip's court, but her own people the day she arrived. He can tell from the confident way she says the words that she's been pondering this for some time now, that this is what has been keeping her occupied in her quiet moments today. “I have left all of you intact,” he carefully replies, his eyes drawn to hers.

 

They're positively sparkling with mischief and pain, a combination that never works well. “Why?”

 

He's caught off guard, stepping back and hitting the door in surprise. “What?”

 

She smirks, just a tiny hint of a smile full of bad ideas as she slips closer to him. “Why have you left my virtue intact?”

 

He laughs nervously. He could push past her, or escape by vanishing through the door, but the thought of leaving her seems somehow wrong when her moods are still so volatile. His hands flit up to his shoulders as he calls forth his trusted theatricality, intending to put an end to this. He points in her face, his finger inches from her nose. “You... you are being... being...” The words die in his throat as she slips her lips around his finger, running her tongue over the rough ridges of his callused digit.

 

His finger falls from her lips as she pulls her head back, a satisfied smile gracing her face at his surprise.“Is it because you do not desire me?” She steps closer, her body barely brushing his. “Or that you think me unwilling?”

 

His eyes widen, his hands flit over and around her arms, not touching but unsure of quite what to do. “Our deal was not-”

 

She interrupts him, taking his hands and placing them on the swells of her hips. “Not one person in that room apparently thought our deal had to do with anything other than carnal desires.” She leans up and whispers in his ear, “Including me.” Her head dips below his chin, the tip of her nose grazing across his Adam's apple, until she's at his other ear, her breath hot and her voice low. “I'll admit I was afraid at first, but the longer you waited to touch me, the more intrigued I was.”

 

Belle pulls back, her hands slipping up his chest and over the high collar of his jacket. She lets them dip into the collar, running the edges of her nails along the soft skin under his jaw. She takes a deep breath when she sees how it makes him shudder, his eyes closed tightly. His fingers clench at her hips, the stiff satin crinkling between them.

 

“Take me, Rumpelstiltskin.” Her voice slips sultry over his skin, “Take me to bed and make me your whore.”

 

His eyes snap open and he pushes her away. “That's why I never touched you,” he growls out, pacing away from her. Her face falls, embarrassment and fury warring within her, but he has no time for her emotions when his want out so badly. “You're not some every day tart of a princess, my dear. The deal was pure, I wished companionship and a bit of dusting only.” He lopes over to her, pointing at her face with his whole hand, his fingers curling and uncurling with his built up rage. “You're not something to be used, to be treated worse than muck on my shoes and sought out only for pleasure.” He turns away, disgust written on his features; quite who the emotion is for, he can't say.

 

“It is what they say,” she spits out, leaning forward and breathing heavy in rage. “It is what they think and feel and Agatha says the maids pray for my soul every night. Why not give in? Why not make them right? Why not let loose of my morals if that's all they believe of me anyway?”

 

He sneers at her from over his shoulder. “Have some dignity left, will you? Some pride in your own beliefs, perhaps?”

 

He paces closer, his eyes tight on her face as she lets the words slip past her lips, her jaw set tight. “They think me a whore, why not make me one?”

 

He takes her by the shoulders, shaking tightly as he all but yells in her face. “Is that what you want? For me to take you by force? To defile you in ways that you cannot imagine? To find my pleasure in your pain?” With a roar he pulls his hands away and turns from her, banging his fist against the stone of the wall.

 

Her voice is small and alone when she finally speaks, drifting pitifully to his ears. “Then what am I for if you have no desire for me? Your magic can clean far better than I.”

 

The words slip out before he can stop them. “You are for worshiping.” His head slumps low on his shoulders. “I never said I have no desire for you. There is far more to you than a pleasing body. Your kindness, your grace, your beauty, all greater than any Gods or any man I have yet to come across. You are for pleasuring and loving and cherishing.” His head falls to his fist against the stone. “But I am the man who bargained for you, the man who planted the seed of their distrust and ill will in your people by taking you as mine. To fully take you, to have you now, when I have seen how I have caused you pain, would be sacrilege. These people treat you like scum for all your sacrifice and I would worship you like a God.”

 

The sound of labored breathing, heavy with frustration and fight fill the room. Neither wants to be the first to break the careful silence. She walks slowly to him, her hand falling to his back as light as a feather, her words equally as airy. “And if I do not want to be worshiped?”

 

His voice is cautious, as if he's afraid to say the words. “All the more reason for this beastly creature to give you his devotion.”

 

She slips her arms around his waist, pressing tight to his back and holding him close. “All the more reason for me to love the man who thinks himself a beast.”

 

He calms in her arms, his breath slowing and coming with hers, their bodies moving together as she holds him tight. “I have been the cause of your pain these past days,” the anguish is clear in his voice, “Not for your father's passing, but for the scorn and derision of the people who should care for you.”

 

Without letting go, Belle slides under his arm, wrapping around him until they're chest to chest and she can fit her head under his chin with only a small nudge of her temple. His arms slip around her cautiously, holding her tighter than she can ever remember being held by anyone. “You never intended it to happen.”

 

“Intent is meaningless,” he murmurs into her hair, breathing her in deeply.

 

“No,” she replies fiercely, “Not here, not now. You intended to save me from this pain, but your actions- you have been the only reason I stand tall these last few days. You do not bring pain, you bring comfort.” Belle sighs, snuggling closer to his chest.

 

“I am older than you can fathom,” his words twist in his throat, the tone meant to warn betrayed by the note of hope in his voice.

 

Her hand presses against his chest, her ear listening eagerly to the thump of his heart. “If you refuse to die, then your age is meaningless.”

 

His hands roam over her back in warm, soothing circles, but his voice is cold. “My magic is dark, evil.”

 

Her voice lilts, calmer than it has been all day, with just a hint of mirth. “There is light in you yet, or you wouldn't be here.”

 

“You are that light, Belle. I have no lightness without you.” He holds her tight, his hands stopping to press wide on her back.

 

Belle wraps her arms around his waist, pressing as close as she can get to him. “You underestimate what you are capable of, what you have already done, and the good you like to pretend you don't do.”

 

“I've done more harm than good.” His voice is harsh and dark, though he does not give an inch in their tight embrace.

 

If Belle thinks she hears regret in his voice, she knows he'll only deny it later with a trite giggle and silly bow. “I'll see your books before I pass judgment on that one, but I suspect you lie there, as well.”

 

He pulls back, taking her chin in his hands, his thumb stroking gently over her jaw. “Can you truly love me?” His wide, animal eyes search her face, looking for some kind of understanding as he teeters off balance. “This is not some reaction to your grief?”

 

“My grief is deep. The pain far more than I ever was prepared for. This comes, not from the pain itself, but from the realization that our time in this world- well, my time at least- is short. There may not be a later or tomorrow to say what needs to be said. To tell you what's in my heart. To show you the passion I feel.” Her forehead crinkles and her eyes drift far away. “Yes, it comes from the grief, but not because of it. The love- that has been there now for ages when I think on it. It is the confession that my grief has torn from my lips.”

 

He tips his head forward slowly, ever so slowly, until his brow rests upon hers. His nose slips playfully against her cheek, and with utter reverence, his lips rest upon hers. Her eyes flutter shut as she feels him begin to move, to pull her bottom lip between his and she is lost to the sensation. Her hands clutch tightly into his coat as she kisses him back, their noses bumping as she feels her heart race and her blood pump in her veins. He begins to pull back but she follows him greedily, her lips seeking his out in need and desperation. His thumbs press gently at her jaw, pushing her away.

 

He licks his lips and she longs for the feel of them again, but bites her tongue instead to keep still. “I will not have you tonight,” he whispers.

 

She slides her hands up his chest, letting them slip into his coat and against the silk of his shirt. She feels wonton and free, but the words still make her blush bright red. “Even if I invite you to my bed?”

 

“You are nothing if not a virtuous woman, Belle, and I am capable of some restraint.” He slides his cheek along hers, his hands slipping to hold her tightly to him as his lips graze her ear. “Being such, your virtue should stay intact until your marriage bed beckons and your husband fulfills your pleasure.”

 

“But-” Bell pulls away, her features twisted with pained confusion.

 

He smiles devilishly at her. “The day I take your virtue will not see you a whore, but my wife.” Her understanding downs slowly, with a wide smile, but is quickly followed by a yawn. Without pause he sweeps her into his arms, her dress transforming into a satin night gown as he sets her carefully on her bed. She slips herself between the sheets, waiting menacingly as he tucks her in tightly from feet to waist. When he's close enough, she grabs his collar, pulling his lips to hers again with a soft moan. “You are not set on making my restraint easy to keep, are you?”

 

His words flit across her lips as she holds him to her. She feels the way he matches her smile. “I've never been one to do things the easy way,” she tells him, punctuating each word with a kiss.

 

Rumpelstiltskin heaves his whole body back from the bed. “Perhaps it is my own virtue that is in danger,” he jests, wrinkling his nose at her. At her giggle, he sets the lights low with the flick of his wrist. “Sleep well, dearie.”

 

He turns away from her, but her voice rings out in the dark. “Where will you be?”

 

“Not far,” he says gently, slipping onto the settee. “Never far.”

* * *

Waiting nearly two weeks for the arrival of Prince Philip and Princess Aurora in a fiefdom full of people that hate both him and Belle is not exactly high on the list of things Rumpelstiltskin would like to be doing with his time, but nevertheless he stays.

 

He tries to find ways to amuse himself, however, while leaving Belle's side as little as possible.

 

She asks him to escort the Astors to the edge of her lands, and he does so with every bit of theatricality he can manage without turning them to ants. He enjoys the way they flinch at every small movement he makes on the way to the forest's edge.

 

He also takes care to be seen with Agatha from time to time, though the maid still jumps whenever he's near. He wants it quietly known that the woman is protected, and though with the Astors gone he sees little threat left in the castle walls, he makes the effort just the same.

 

Most of his days, however, are spent with Belle. At first she was shy to share her space with him when the sting of numbness and loss wore off, but that faded quickly when her fear of being alone seemed to outweigh her thoughts to impropriety. Of all the small things he's found to admire her for in the past days, he loves the way her face lights up when he dresses her with magic; gowns in the finest fabrics that he can imagine, in the most beautiful hues of black that can be conceived of, in styles that would take the most talented seamstresses and tailors years to create.

 

He steps behind her as she admires one such creation in a long, thin mirror one morning. He sweeps her soft cascade of hair back over her shoulder. “Have you missed finery?” His voice wavers, just a bit, fear that she'll yet change her mind and want to stay coiling in the pit of his stomach. He hides his face in her hair, his lips dipping to rest on the curve of her neck.

 

She leans back into his chest, his arms winding around her hips and sliding down over her skirts gently. “Not the finery, itself. Mama used to say that one felt as they dressed.” Belle chuckled and closed her eyes. “I suspect her lectures about feeling like a princess by dressing as one had much more to do with my penchant for dressing in trousers and getting muddy in the gardens than with any lesson about beauty.” She giggles. “The maids couldn't catch me when I was muddy- I slipped right through their fingers.”

 

He chuckles low, running a thick nail over the bare curve of her shoulder and down the dipped sleeve on her arm. “I can only imagine what kind of scamp you were.”

 

Belle takes a deep breath, her smile turning to a deep frown. “If I had to dress myself now I'd barely get out of my nightgown. If your dress effects how you feel, then how you feel should effect the way you dress and how I feel... I would be in rags. Torn and dirty and missing great swatches. That's what my heart feels.” She turns gently, the billowing skirt bouncing against his legs as she cradles his chin in her palm. “But you dress me with such care, and in such beautiful things. Even my best finery is no match for this.”

 

His heart breaks for her. He remembers putting on the same worn rags every morning, the way that the wearing away of the cheep cloth only took away from his hope. He cannot picture her in rags, cannot picture her in the thick and coarse fabrics that he'd lived in. Nothing like that should ever touch her skin, should even be near it. “Does it help your heart, my dear?” He lets the back of his fingers drift over her cheek bone, his thumb stopping to lift a tiny tear from the edge of her lashes before it can fall. “I would create you anything you wished if it would dull your pain. A thousand dresses spun from gold and woven with pearls. Castles filled with the finest silks. Gardens full of mud and the finest flowers in the lands. Anything you desire, I would do.”

 

Belle lets loose a tiny chuckle, deftly avoiding his question and the emotions that she's not yet ready to voice by hiding her head in his chest. “It does help my heart. Come,” she says softly, stepping back and taking his hand in hers. “I believe that one dress is enough for today, and there are still servants that you have yet to terrify.” He follows her, but makes note to keep even closer watch, if it is possible.

 

Belle spends her days packing up the castle to prepare for the newlywed's arrival. She packs her own things first, things she didn't have time to take when she first left: her winter cloak, heavy boots for rain and snow, more dresses than she'll likely ever wear and tiny tokens from her youth. He provides her with a trunk that he says has an unending bottom, so she gently presses things into the blackness of the leather box, watching them disappear into the darkness (she can feel the bottom, but not the the things she's put in) and hopes they make it to the castle.

 

After her own things are safely away, she moves to sorting through decades of her family's belongings. Some things are easily left: she's never held much attachment to the castle's decor aside from a few pieces that Rumpelstiltskin carefully slips into thin air as they walk around the halls and she points them out.

 

Belle spends an entire day sitting in her mother's room, reverently looking over her mother's things before she decides to simply pack it all. When he finds her struggling with her mother's rocking chair, quiet tears slipping down her face, he lifts her into his arms and takes her from the room, telling her to leave it to him while she calms herself. A little well placed magic in the middle of the night, and the entire room, dust and all, is transported to an unused room in the Dark Castle.

 

The next day she gratefully moves on to her father's study. This room is easy for her. She sorts papers about the land from personal family documents, keeping the latter for herself and sorting the former for Philip to use and study. She take's her father's seal and a handful of tiny tokens from his desk, but leaves the room otherwise the same as she found it.

 

The last room she takes on is her father's chambers. She brings Rumpelstiltskin with her, leading him with a strong, desperate grip. She imagines this room to be the worst, imagining that it will somehow be worse than when she attempted her mother's room, but when she opens the door she finds herself surprised. The personal effects she remembers as a child are gone, already boxed at the foot of his bed. The sheets are gone and the empty mattress lays sadly on the bed frame. She lets go of Rumpelstiltskin's hand, slipping softly around the room, peaking into drawers and closets before sitting on the floor in front of the box.

 

A piece of folded parchment sits on top. She opens it carefully, her hand flying to her mouth when she sees her father's handwriting. Rumpelstiltskin turns away, unsure if he's welcome to the private moment. “See that these get to Belle,” she croaks out. “That's all it says.” She starts digging frantically through the box, tossing gilded frames and jeweled boxes on the floor so hard the nearly crack and shatter before he picks his way around the baubles to her side, stilling her arms.

 

He shakes her arms until she looks at him, her eyes wide and unseeing. “Belle, what are you looking for?”

 

She struggles, tearing her arms from his grasp. “That can't be all he wrote. He wants me to have these trifles... these things that are worth money but no memories- there must be something else!” She scrambles her hands through the box, hitting the bottom and slipping them over the wood. When she finds nothing she turns to the treasures she's already pulled out, mumbling to herself as she opens every one, puling secret latches and opening lids and flipping through notebooks until she's gone through every piece.

 

She looks up at him, her hands empty in her lap and her eyes full of empty pain. “That can't be all. He thought of me... he knew he was going to die and he thought of sending me these things, but he sends no last words? That can't be all.”

 

He sits properly, reaching over and gathering her into his lap, holding her tightly. She cries harder than she has in almost a week amidst her father's last treasures, the one thing she wished for most the only thing he had not set aside for her.

 

* * *

A few days before the fortnight ends, Princess Aurora arrives with a small caravan of wagons. Belle lights up with the woman's arrival, and Rumpelstiltskin is happy to slip into the background watching carefully as the other woman's companionship, and the complicated act of passing the household and lands off to another, keeps Belle's mind busy.

 

Together the two princesses organize servants from two households and Belle shows the woman every nook and cranny in the castle.

 

With each day that passes with Princess Aurora, Belle becomes a lighter being.

 

Each night in chambers he finds Belle is softer, calmer. Her eyes are less bloodshot from bouts of tears and she awakens fewer times during then night calling out to make sure she's not alone.

 

He sits at his wheel as she sleeps, spinning enough gold to feed an entire village for a year. Every second, even with her soft touches and tight embraces, he still feels that she may be slipping away. He waits, every morning, for her to tell him she's decided to stay.

* * *

Prince Philip finally arrives with carriages of his own, the castle buzzing with preparations for a ball. Rumpelstiltskin stays out of sight, invisible with magic as he watches Belle greet him and lead him about the castle in a nearly identical tour to the one she gave to Princess Aurora.

 

Her sadness is no longer overwhelming. He sees it in the shape of her smile and at the corner of her eye, how her back is not nearly as tense and her hands are no longer stiff and wrung together.

 

She smiles more.

 

“Will you come to the ball tonight?” Prince Philip asks cautiously. “I know it is not customary, seeing as you still mourn, but I would very much like you in attendance.”

 

Belle tips her head at him regally. “I will come.” A look of gentle sadness falls over her face. “Someone must represent my family to share in the celebration of the passing of the lands.”

 

Belle turns to continue down the hall, but Philip stops her with a soft hand on her shoulder. “Aurora told me of what happened at your father's pyre. I am truly sorry you were alone.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin shivers in the shadows. He's not sure what rankles his skin more: the way Philip touches her so freely or the insinuation that Belle was ever alone during the worst moments of her life.

 

Belle steps to him, an indulgent curve to her lips on her face. “Thank you for the thought, but I was not alone. Rumpelstiltskin was with me. Agatha, my nursemaid, who will serve you and the princess well, was with me, too.”

 

Philip hesitates, the words dropping uncomfortably from his lips. “This imp, Rumpelstiltskin... he truly treats you well?”

 

Her brows crease crease in frustration. “I've said as much several times now. Yes, he does.”

 

Philip steps closer, his voice low and secretive. “Belle, be truthful. I know not the complete story, but I know what is said of him. If he harms you, or if he keeps you captive, I can help. I will not let kin suffer.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin's heart stops beating. Belle is quiet for just a second too long and he knows this is where she asks to stay, this is where she tells Philip she has been wronged. He shuts his eyes and turns away, sure that hearing the words will break him.

 

Belle lays her hand on Philip's shoulder, a serene smile on her face. “Your concern is noble and I appreciate it very much, but I don't need saving. He treats me better than any queen, and without him these past weeks I would have surely fallen to pieces.” She sighs, hands smoothing down her skirts. “I know the stories, and I know of his temper better than anyone, but he has never hurt me and though I do not leave his castle, I have never asked, either.” Sadness falls over her features, as Rumpelstiltskin turns to watch, unable to look away. “After these past few weeks, it was perhaps a blessing to be kept away from all this. The cheating, the lying, the cruelty of man. Yes, I have missed balls and dinners and trips to the country, but I have also avoided the faults of humanity and the pain that comes with them.”

 

Philips face is contorted, confused and tight with worry. Belle continues, unsure of how to put anyone's fear for her at rest, but dead set on doing so. “I care for him deeply, Philip. I know it makes no sense. You're taught he is a monster to vanquish, but he is no beast. He is the man I love, and I believe he loves me, too.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin stares at her in wonder. Had he not heard the words come from her own mouth he might never believe it.

 

Philip's shoulders sag gently, though he still looks at her with disbelief in his eyes. “I know True Love. I wish that it is what you have found with him.” His face turns hard again, his features cut from stone. “But if that changes... if his kindness turns to cruelty or if his reputation finds you in danger... you have a place here, Belle. I will not turn away family.”

 

She smiles, turning and taking his arm to lead him deeper into the castle. “And that is why you will make a wonderful ruler.”

 

Her voice drifts back to Rumpelstiltskin as he stands stock still, staring after them. In all his years, not one human has been able to surprise him as much as she.

* * *

Rumpelstiltskin waits until Belle leaves the young Prince in her father's office before releasing the magic, turning visible once again and knocking on the door. The prince bids him enter, but still jumps when he gets his first look of the monster he's heard so much about.

 

To the man's credit, he doesn't stumble over his words and manages to stand stately. “Rumpelstiltskin, I presume?”

 

Rumpelstiltskin bows deeply, a smirk on his face. “Prince Philip, I was hoping to have a word with you regarding our mutual acquaintance.”

 

The prince rounds the large desk, taking in the dark eyes and shimmering skin as he stands toe to toe with him. Rumpelstiltskin gives quite a bit of credit to the man who hides his fear of him so well that it only shows through the backs of his eyes. “In regards to Belle, I assume.”

 

He's given this some thought the past few days, and after this afternoon, he has decided that civility is the only way to move forward honorably with Belle. There is no salvation for him, but the little he could do, the small channels in polite society that he could maneuver through, would only help to mend people's opinions of her, and mending her reputation is all he hopes for in this moment. “I love her,” Rumpelstiltskin says plainly, no theatricality or note of singing in his voice. “I wish your blessing, as closest relative, to make her my wife.”

 

Philip stares, his eyes raking up and down Rumpelstiltskin and his jaw tight. He circles him as only a high born prince can, with an air of haughtiness that is inherent. “Your reputation precedes you, sir. How can I be sure she will be safe with you?”

 

He is careful to stand still, to look Philip in the eye and stand tall. The last time he asked for anyone's hand was centuries ago, but the memory still echoes within him at this moment. The girl, only half interested in him but unable to refuse his offer of marriage, standing by his trembling, young human self as her father, happy to be rid of one of many children, made quick work of the dowry. It was not pleasant, but this sits wrong with him in a different way. He tries to hold back the growl in his voice. “I protect what is mine.”

 

“So you admit you treat her like at hing to be collected?” Philip points a finger in his face, and Rumpelstiltskin thinks that were he any other man, he would be relieved of the finger, or perhaps the whole hand by now.

 

He takes a deep breath, his eyes shining darkly as he refuses to be intimidated by the boy playing at being a man. “She is far more precious than that, and far to independent to let herself be collected.”

 

Philip narrows his eyes at him. “You keep her prisoner. Is that not... collected? ”

 

The urge to toss magic around stirs in his veins, the need to tear this man down with words and take back his request leaves his heart pounding. But he is the very reason that Belle is so alone, so hurt at this moment, and he will hold his tongue only for her. Or at least try his very best. “I keep her... safe.”

 

Taller, Philip uses the perceived advantage to loom over the still imp. He doesn't know that his magic could tear him to bits even if he were twice or three times his height. “Should she wish to leave...”

 

The question still stirs insecurity in him. Thinking back to the afternoon, knowing that Belle would be free to come here, to live a safe and happy life, he cannot lie. “She would be free to go.”

 

The air is thick between the two men for long, quiet minutes as each waits for the other to give in. Philip, unused to dealing with someone who doesn't bow to his regal authority, breaks first, though his words are still strong and cautious. “I am not one to trust so easily.”

 

A bit of a smirk, fueled by admiration for Philip's desire to be the kind of man that could stand toe to toe with a beast and also stand so tall for family, blooms on Rumpelstiltskin's face. “Neither is Belle. But I have earned her trust, and love, and I only wish to return it.”

 

Philip nods, his lips a tight, thin line. “Then you have my blessing. But should you hurt her, there is no magic in any kingdom that will stop me from hurting you in return.”

 

This time the imp smiles fully, his respect for the man in front of him growing exponentially. “As well it should be.”

* * *

Belle stands on the outskirts of the great hall, pressed against the wall in a corner, watching the guests twirl across the floor in their finery as she fingers her heavy black skirt. She's startled when Rumpelstiltskin appears next to her, but smiles softly after she catches her breath. “I do wish you wouldn't do that.”

 

“Didn't want to draw attention to myself, dearie. I wouldn't want to ruin anyone's time.” He's wearing a high collared gold coat, fit for the ball himself. She looks at him reproachfully, but doesn't say a word. Instead, he gestures to the black gown she wears. “Why haven't you changed?”

 

Belle shrugs and smooths down the seam at her hips that she's been nervously picking at. “I'm still in mourning, it wouldn't do to wear anything else.” Though the cut of the gown is modern and generally appropriate for the affair, the deep black is out of place in a room full of pastels and jewel tones. She is, literally, the only spot of darkness he can see.

 

“And you don't desire to dance?” He asks, puzzled. Her eyes follow every couple as they waltz around the floor.

 

Belle's sigh is quiet, but he hears it all the same. “I was taught that personal mourning and public mourning are two very different things. I would like to dance, and mourn my father in my heart by living on, but court does not allow it. I must be solemn and let go by at least another fortnight before I can be seen in color and nearly another season before I can be seen dancing again. Beyond that, formal mourning lasts nearly a year for other things unless there are extenuating circumstances.”

 

He can see how she longs to dance, how she longs to spin across the floor, written plainly across her face. “Are society's rules truly that important to you?”

 

Her head shakes swiftly and she goes back to picking at her dress. “No, but they were to papa. And if a last tribute to him means that I don't dance tonight, then I shall not dance.”

 

A few of the guests have noticed Rumpelstiltskin, their eyes darting over to him and Belle and away again just as fast. He slips them further into the corner and slides behind her, pulling her tight against him until he's nearly hidden behind her, sliding his hands back to make sure the gold of his sleeves doesn't show on the stark darkness of her dress. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, the sounds of people clapping quietly as the small string orchestra pauses between songs.

 

She looks over her shoulder, starting to protest, but he turns her chin gently back towards the dance floor. With a sigh, she complies, and the orchestra starts in on a new waltz as he talks softly in her ear. “Your dress... I would take all of the golden thread I've been spinning and weave it into the finest cloth. A gown, fit for the goddess you are, spun from golden thread and silks dyed in the finest dyes. The skirt would billow from your legs in layers upon layers of tiered and embroidered fabric. A lovely bodice embroidered and decorated with silk tulle and pearls.” His nails tickle up her arms. “Gloves, to give the illusion of modesty, all the way up your arms. Your hair, long and waved and pulled away so I can see your eyes. A thin crown of the finest gold I could find. Slippers of the softest satin, encrusted with jewels.”

 

Belle sighs in his arms, leaning back to feel his chest behind her. “It sounds gorgeous.”

 

“It pales in comparison to your beauty.” Her tongue tuts against her teeth, but he doesn't give her time to protest. “You'd be the most beautiful woman in the room, on the arm of this lucky beast. They would clear the floor for us. And we would waltz.”

 

It's the smallest of movements, just a shift in his chest really, but he's careful that it's in time with the music. “I would spin you across the floor until you looked like sunlight itself bursting to life. Until you looked like a phoenix being reborn in fire. Until your heart was full and your desire to move was sated.”

 

She turns her head, resting it on his shoulder as she sways with him. “It's wonderful,” she whispers out against his starched collar. Her eyes flutter open to catch him staring at her. “We should leave tomorrow.” Her hands slip behind her back to find his, lacing their fingers together even as he continues to hide behind her. “Philip and Aurora have this well in hand, and I wish to sleep in my own bed.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, looking down at her. “You do not wish to stay? To be among kin any longer?”

 

Belle turns to the side, smiling up at him. “I wish to go home, and this has not been my home in a very long time.”

 

He nods quickly. “Then I shall make the preparations.” He looks around. They're still drawing stares, though he doesn't care much he'd rather not make Belle stand out any more than necessary. “M'lady.” He bows deeply and as she curtseys he disappears from sight, leaving her alone just long enough to gather her wits before Aurora, in a bright rose dress, joins her.

 

“I'm so sorry you can't join in the festivities, Belle.” Aurora's sweet face shows concern and true regret, and for that Belle is thankful. “But perhaps it will only be but a year until you are the center of attention, yes?”

 

The smile stilts on Belle's face, her eyes blinking quickly. “I beg your pardon, I don't understand.”

 

Aurora smiles brightly. “Why, your wedding, of course! You'll have to wait until the end of your formal mourning, but Philip told me that Rumpelstiltskin asked his blessing to marry you and-” Aurora's hand fly to cover her mouth at Belle's slack expression. “Oh, I've ruined the surprise. He hasn't asked you yet, has he?”

 

Belle clears her throat awkwardly. “Um, well, not exactly, no. You could say we've discussed it, but... I honestly never thought he'd...” A tiny giggle of wonder slips out with her next breath, and Aurora sweeps forward and hugs her.

 

“I'm sorry I've ruined the surprise,” she pulls back, her cheeks bright red, “but I'm very happy for you. I haven't seen him much, but I've seen the way he looks at you.” Aurora smiles brightly, and when Philip calls she retreats back into the crowd with a small wave.

 

Belle's breath shudders out as she searches out a bench, sitting before her legs can cease to hold her up. It had only been one sentence. One. She thought he had been humoring her, doing what he could to protect her virtue and let her down gently.

 

Rumpelstiltskin would never marry. The man who considered himself a beast would not ever get himself involved in a contract such as that... but Belle thought for a second, and 'forever' sounded suspiciously like a marriage vow.

* * *

Belle storms into her chambers, the door hinges clattering as she shoves the wood hard. Rumpelstiltskin is standing at his wheel, slowly spinning. He turns his head when she walks in, waiting for her to talk.

 

Her jaw is set tight as the door swings shut behind her, the click as it closes somehow the impetus it takes to move her forward in long, powerful strides. She's at his side quickly, without warning throwing her body to his, her lips finding his with a single minded ardor as she kisses him hard.

 

He barely has time to return the kiss before she pulls back, her palm catching him across the jaw with a loud crack. Anger seems to have won out over any other emotion she's warring with, fire blazing behind her eyes as she yells. “You asked for my hand?”

 

His lip curls, the Dark One snarls in his mind at the way the evening's turned. No one's touched him in anger like that and lived for hundreds of years. “I thought you might appreciate an attempt at civility,” he bites out, nearly snarling. His lips purse, his face souring. “Whose tongue do I get to cut out for spoiling my surprise and upsetting you so?” The thought of slitting a tongue out of someone's head appeals to him as tendrils of black magic circle his heart, his fists clenching at his sides.

 

She grabs his jaw tightly, unafraid of the way he snarls at her. “Tongues will stay where they are,” she orders, no room for argument in the way she lays the words at his feet: a command as surely as if she held his dagger in her hands.

 

The way she looks at him stirs another emotion alongside the cursed anger, a deep stirring that is more than the slow passion he's come to know around her. He wants to posses her, take her, fight for dominance with her and it doesn't matter who wins as long as she brings the sparks that she's firing off invisibly into the air with her. As if she can sense his longing, she attacks his lips with hers once more. He's far quicker to respond this time, taking her hips in his hands and tugging her to him, but she wrestles herself away just as quickly.

 

His eyes narrow at her, his voice lilting into a high, dangerous pitch. “You'd do well to pick an emotion and stick with it, dearie. It would be much less confusing to the rest of us who don't know what's going on in your pretty little head.”

 

Belle sighs with resignation, some of the fight draining from her but a tiny spark of fight still sitting behind her eyes. “It is your own fault.”

 

His teeth bare as he leans nose to nose with her. “You'll have to be more specific. I get blamed for many, many things.”

 

Her eyes soften to a pleading look, the last of her fight fleeing as her voice turns oddly wistful. “You take what you wish. Anything you desire, you find a way to make it yours. Why can't you take me?”

 

His brow creases, his head tilting to the side as he pulls her closer to him roughly. “I believe that I am very much in possession of you now.”

 

She turns her head away, her lips pressed together and her breath softly humming through her nose. “By asking for permission, by gaining permission, by wishing to do right by me... you've banished us to seasons of unhappiness.”

 

He turns her head back to him with his thumb and forefinger on her chin as he fights back the darker emotions that war inside of him. “Dearie, if you made any less sense I might as well be talking to a duck. Plainly, if you please.”

 

“I am in mourning,” she enunciates her words as if she's talking to a small child. “By the rules of our court, which you have so charmingly decided to follow by asking my kin for permission, I cannot marry for at least a year from the day of my father's death.” She drops her head to his chest heavily, clutching at the edges of his waistcoat. “If I have decided only one thing this whole time, it is that I will mourn by my father's wishes, not my own. One last thing for him before I simply live just for myself alone, and you just made that so much harder...” The words fall away from her lips.

 

A heavy sigh falls from him, the last rumblings of the darkness slowly receding to the recesses of his soul for the moment. “I thought that, perhaps, erring traditional would be appreciated in this matter.” He wraps his arms around her, his hand threading into her hair as he thinks on the consequences.

 

“The intent is...” she wraps tightly around him, delaying for just a moment until she can find the right word, “appreciated. It is, however, unfortunate.”

 

“Intent is meaningless,” he murmurs as he holds her, thinking of how inappropriate this actually is in the eyes of any royal, even the lowest born. They are two unwed people of the opposite gender, alone in her room, unchaperoned and wrapped tightly in an embrace. This is utterly scandalous, and yet, she does not seem to mind much. He could care even less but for the words and desires she seems to hold in her desire to do one last thing for her father. “Perhaps,” he whisperers into her hair, “this can be seen as an opportunity.”

 

Belle twists into his embrace, letting her forehead nestle under his chin. “How so?”

 

He wrestles the last vestiges of the darkness back; the anger doesn't fade easily but he's had centuries to learn how to tame it when he wants. “It gives us time to know one another without the pall of death or the fear of breaking a deal. If you are betrothed to me, the end is already decided upon. It frees us to learn more of one another than a master and maid would ever dare.”

 

Belle's breath rushes from her chest. “How do you always seem to know the right thing to say?” She pulls back, looking up into his eyes. “These men and women who see you as a monster, they will never know you as I do.” Her hand runs up over his cheek. “They will never know the man that you hide in there so deeply.”

 

“For that,” he breathes out, taking her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles, “I will always be eternally grateful.”

 

* * *

The black travel dress that Rumpelstiltskin conjures for her is simple, and much closer in style to her beloved blue work dress than anything she's worn yet. He lets her say her goodbyes, choosing to slip from her chamber door to his magical carriage without being seen.

 

It takes Belle most of the morning to work her way through the castle: she cannot turn down the morning meal or forget to say goodbye to the servants. She hurries to show Aurora a few last little things about the castle, and shares with Philip the secret stairwell her father used to escape when he needed a moment to himself.

 

She finally reaches him at the carriage when the sun is high and hot as midday approaches. Aurora, Philip, and a handful of attendants, including Agatha, have come to see them off. Belle hugs every one in turn and shares her last words with each. Agatha cries silently, but smiles. Rumpelstiltskin holds out his hand to Belle and smirks when she takes it, stepping next to him.

 

Rumpelstiltskin smiles at the small crowd and bows smartly. It is as close as he will come to actually thanking them for their hospitality. Though he's come to care for those that care for Belle, he still wishes to destroy many of the people that surround them for their cruel words and terrible gossip.

 

Aurora curtseys and smiles. “Safe journeys. You are both welcome here at any time.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin looks back and forth between the two princesses. “Yes, well,” he has to clear his throat to get the words out, “Perhaps Belle should pay a visit in the spring. We are... quite a bit removed in the Dark Castle and it would give her the opportunity to... catch up. Perhaps attend a ball or two.”

 

Belle's jaw nearly unhinges as she turns to him, but Princess Aurora just smiles and agrees that Belle should visit. Philip smirks at the imp's lack of ease with his words, but Aurora brightens and clasps her hands together tightly. Belle looks to her, stammering around the smile on her face. “Yes, yes I should like to come visit sometime.”

 

Their ears can't hear it, but Rumpelstiltskin's can. It's the weak butler that Agatha had been talking to all those days ago. Across the courtyard he curses a blue streak; spews unkind words about Belle and the woman of the house who would invite the beast's consort back within their walls. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes drift to the small man who fingers something in his pocket with dark and cold eyes as he stares at them.

 

Belle pulls his attention back to her, stepping closer as Aurora chatters happily to her husband about having Belle about in the Spring. “You're serious?”

 

His eyes drift down to hers, a soft smile slipping over his face even as the Dark One uses his peripheral vision to watch the butler with bad intentions. “Of course, dearie.” His free hand comes up, a single knuckle tracing over her cheek. “I have told you, anything for your happiness.”

 

Her smile is soft, lighting her face up like a million stars in a way he hasn't seen since he had to deliver the awful news of her father's passing. Perhaps it is because he is wicked, or perhaps it is because he is evil, or maybe even because he loves her so, but he can not hold back. He catches her chin with his knuckle and leans down, kissing her soundly.

 

She leans into him, returning the kiss, and he cannot stop. But he hears things.

 

He hears the gasps of the court at the impropriety of it.

 

He hears Aurora's happy giggle and Philip's suspicious huff.

 

He hears the tiny moan in the back of Belle's throat.

 

He hears the butler.

 

He hears the small man grumble cruel words and hateful slurs. Rumpelstiltskin opens one eye even as he continues to kiss Belle, his vision finding the butler just as he pushes through the crowd to within feet of them as he draws a sharp dagger from his pocket.

 

With a snap and a point oh his finger, the small man is a snail, the dagger clattering to the stone by him.

 

Belle pulls away, hiding into his embrace at the shocked yells and screams of the people around them. Philip's hand is at this sword as he turns, Aurora hiding into his back. Rumpelstiltskin holds Belle tight with one arm, his eyes dark as he points at the shelled creature. “Let me step on him,” he snarls to Belle.

 

“No,” Belle lets her hand fall on his, pulling it away from the small snail and keeping him from inflicting more magic upon the creature. “I believe that is punishment enough.”

 

“Explain yourself!” Philip calls out, pressing an arm in front of Aurora as he turns back to Rumpelstiltskin, but the imp has taken Belle's hand and turned her, already escorting her into the carriage. He shuts the door behind them, the sounds of calls for explanations and yells fading away as magic surrounds the carriage and starts the journey back to the Dark Castle.

 

Belle reaches across his lap, trying to open the door again, but his arms pull her to sit at his side. “What are you doing?” she cries, indignant. “We must go back and explain!”

 

He laughs high in the back of his throat. “I must do nothing. That man would have had you dead, as well as Philip. Agatha saw all, I'm sure she'll be happy to expound on the snail's shortcomings. Besides,” he smirks, pulling her body closer to him, “I thought this was what you wanted?”

 

Belle's eyebrows knit tightly as she makes tiny grumbling noses in her throat, though she only snuggles closer into his embrace. “What I-”

 

He silences her with another kiss, soft and gentle. “I'm taking what is mine.” At her wide, bright smile he can do nothing but kiss her again.

 

 


End file.
